Great Porter Square: A Mystery. v. 1

by B. L. Farjeon

  CHAPTER VII.

  IN WHICH THE "EVENING MOON" CONTINUES TO SPEAK ITS MIND.

  It was fatally true. They were dancing in blood. The woman who made theawful discovery had white satin shoes on. As she uttered the appallingwords she looked down at her feet, and, with a wild shudder, sank intoher husband's arms. He, overwrought with excitement, had scarcelysufficient strength to support her, and he would have allowed her toslip to the floor had he not, also, cast his eyes earthwards. Quickly hecaught her to his breast, and, trembling violently, proceeded upstairs.The weight of his burden compelled him to hold on to the balustrade;but the moment he placed his hand on the polished rail, he screamed,"There's been Murder done here!" And, shaking like a leaf, he retreatedin haste till he reached the street door. Flinging it open, he rushedwith his wife into the Square, and stood in the light of the sunrise, apicture of terror.

  The other actors in the scene had borne appropriate parts in the tragicsituation. For a little while they were paralyzed, and incapable ofaction. The streaming in of the daylight aroused them, and they lookedabout timidly. On the floor, stairs, and balustrade were marks of bloodnot yet quite dried, and they traced the crimson stains to the end ofthe passage, where it dipped into the narrow staircase which led to thebasement. There being no natural means of lighting the stairway, thispart of the house was usually lit up by a thin, funereal jet of gas,which burnt as sadly as if its home were a tomb. At present it was indarkness, the gas being turned off.

  The thought that had been put into words by the man who had rushed outof the house now took its place in the minds of those who remainedwithin. There had been murder done. But who was murdered, and where wasthe murderer?

  "That comes," said the violinist to the landlady, "of letting a man intothe house who refuses to give his name."

  The landlady wrung her hands. She saw ruin staring her in the face.

  "He's off, of course," continued the violinist, "and Mary" (the name ofthe servant) "lies downstairs, murdered in cold blood."

  A sound sleeper, indeed, must Mary have been to have slept throughthe music, and the dancing, and the cries of terror. The silence thatreigned below was confirmation of the violinist's assumption. Of allsuppositions, it was the most reasonable. Who would go downstairs tocorroborate it? Not one had sufficient courage.

  Meanwhile, events progressed in front of the house. A policeman,attracted by the sounds of music, was drawn thitherwards, and, seeinga man kneeling on the pavement, supporting a woman, he quickened hissteps.

  "What's up?" demanded the policeman.

  "Murder! murder!" gasped the man.

  The woman's white shoes, bedabbled in blood, met the policeman's eye.

  "There! there!" cried the man, pointing to the passage.

  The policeman was immediately encompassed by the other frightened faces.

  "You're just in time," said the violinist. "There's been murder done."

  "Who's been murdered?" asked the policeman.

  "That's to be found out," was the answer. "It's a girl, we believe."

  "Ah," remarked the policeman, with a certain thoughtfulness; "the lastwas a girl--an unfortunate girl--and _he's_ not been caught."

  Cautiously they re-entered the house, the policeman with his truncheondrawn, and ascended the stairs to the drawing-room. No person, dead oralive, was found.

  "_It's_ downstairs," said the violinist.

  They crept downstairs in a body, keeping close together. There, an awfulsight met their eyes. On the floor of the kitchen lay the body of thestranger who, on the 1st of July, had engaged a room on the first floor,and had paid a month's rent in advance. He had been foully murdered.The servant girl was sound asleep in her bed. It is strange, when shereturned home from the Alhambra, and crept through the passage and thekitchen to bed, that she did not herself make the discovery, for thesoles of her boots were stained with the evidences of the crime, andshe must have passed within a foot or two of the lifeless body; butsatisfactory explanations have since been given, with which and with thedetails of the murder, as far as they are known, the public have alreadybeen made fully acquainted through our columns.

  Our business now is with Antony Cowlrick.

  So profound was the impression produced by the murder that, from the dayit was discovered, no person could be induced to lodge or sleep in thehouse in which it was committed. The tenants all left without givingnotice, and the landlady, prostrated by the blow, has not dared, sincethat awful night, to venture inside the door. The house is avoided,shunned, and dreaded by all. Any human being bold enough to take itcould have it for a term of years on a very moderate rental--for thefirst year, probably, for a peppercorn; but practical people as we are,with our eyes on the main chance, we are imbued with sentiments whichcan never be eradicated. The poorest family in London could not, at thepresent time, be induced to occupy the house. The stain of blood is onthose floors and stairs, and _it can never be washed out_! The Spiritof Murder lurks within the fatal building, and when night falls, thephantom holds terrible and undisputed sway over mind and heart. Ashapeless shadow glides from room to room--no features are visible buteyes which never close, and which shine only in the dark. And in thedaylight, which in this house is robbed of its lustre, its presence ismanifest in the echo of every step that falls upon the boards. Appallingspectre! whose twin brother walks ever by the side of the undiscoveredmurderer! Never, till justice is satisfied, shall it leave him. As hestole from the spot in which he took the life of a fellow-creature, ittouched his heart with its spiritual hand, and whispered, "I am theshadow of thy crime! Thou and I shall never part!" He looks into theglass, and it peers over his shoulder; maddened, he flies away, and whenhe stops to rest, he feels the breath of the Invisible on his cheek. Heslinks into his bed, and hiding his head in the bedclothes, lies therein mortal terror, knowing that the shadow is close beside him. It bringsawful visions upon him. He looks over the bridge into the river uponwhich the sun is shining. How bright is the water! How clear! Howpure! Surely over that white surface the shadow can have no power! Butsuddenly comes a change, and the river is transformed into a river ofblood. An irresistible fascination draws him to the river again inthe night, when the moon is shining on the waters, and, as he gazesdownwards, he sees the ghastly body of his victim, its face upturned,floating on a lurid tide. He cannot avoid it; whichever way he turnsit is before him. He walks through country lanes, and trembles at thefluttering of every leaf. Rain falls; it is red; and as he treads along,it oozes up and up till it reaches his eyes, and, resting there, tingeseverything that meets his sight with the colour of blood. Water hecannot drink, its taste is so horrible. He must have gin, brandy--anypoison that will help him to forget. Vain hope! He shall never forget!And the shadow of his crime shall never leave until he falls at the feetof outraged justice, and pays the penalty. Then, _and then only_, theremay be hope for him--for God is merciful!

  Among the measures adopted by the police for the discovery of the GreatPorter Square murderer was that of having the house, No. 119, watchedday and night by policemen in private clothes. There are not manypersons in the kingdom who, in a murder case which has thrilled thepublic heart and filled it with horror, would accuse the police of wantof zeal; but there are many who, with justice, would accuse them of wantof tact.

  A week after the murder was committed, Policeman X (as it is not ofan individual, but of a system, we complain, we will not make thisparticular constable's name more prominent than it has alreadybecome)--a week then after the murder was committed, Policeman X, inprivate clothes, saw lurking in the vicinity of Great Porter Square, aman: as he might see to-night other men lurking in the vicinity of anyand every square in London. It is a peculiarity of policemen in privateclothes that they are always ready to suspect, and that in their eyesevery poor-looking person with whose face they are not familiar is adisreputable character. Policeman X watched this man for a few moments,and took the opportunity of brushing past him when they were near alamp-post. The man's face was un
known to him; it was haggard and pale,and his clothes betokened poverty. These were terrible signs, andPoliceman X at once set himself the task of stealthily following theman, who walked leisurely towards the house, No. 119, in which themurder was committed. The house was deserted and untenanted, as it is atthe present time. Now, would the suspected man pass the house, or wouldhe linger near it? Much depended upon this.

  The man reached the house, peered around (according to Policeman X'sstatement) to make sure that he was not observed, and then cast his eyesto the dark windows. He lingered, as though in indecision, for a fewmoments, and standing before the door, appeared to be studying thenumber. Then he strolled away. It cannot be said that there was anythingcriminating in these movements, but Policeman X, determined not to losesight of his man, followed him at a cautious but convenient distance.The man sauntered round the Square, and presently commenced to munchsome stale bread and cheese, portions of which were afterwards foundupon him. He completed the circuit of the Square, and for the secondtime paused before No. 119. Again he studied the number on the door,and again he looked up at the dark windows. Not satisfied with hisinspection in that direction, he stooped down to the grating above thearea, and appeared to listen. Still not satisfied, he ascended the twosteps which led to the street door, and tried the handle.

  Nothing more was needed. "I have the murderer!" thought Policeman X,with a thrill of satisfaction; and without further hesitation, he walkedquickly up, clapped his hand on the man's shoulder, and said--

  "What are you doing here?"

  The sudden appearance of a human being out of the shadows probably sostartled the suspected man that he did not know what to reply. He thrusthis head forward in the endeavour to distinguish the features of thequestioner. The next words uttered by Policeman X had more meaning inthem. With his hand still on the man's shoulder, he said, sternly--

  "Come with me!"

  The reply given to the invitation was the reply which the writer, or anyof the readers of this article, would have given on the impulse of themoment. It is to be borne in mind that the policeman was in privateclothes, and might, as far as appearances went, himself have been amurderer in the eyes of another man dressed in private clothes, who, inhis turn (for what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander) mighthimself have been a policeman.

  "Come with me!" exclaimed Policeman X.

  Antony Cowlrick--if that is his proper name, which we doubt--had as muchreason to suspect Policeman X as Policeman X had to suspect AntonyCowlrick. Not only did he decline the invitation in words decidedlyrude (really, Mr. Cowlrick, you should have been more courteous to thispoliceman in private clothes!), but he had the temerity to fling notonly Policeman X's hand from his shoulder, but the policeman's entirebody from his person. Not long did Policeman X lie upon the ground--forjust time enough to come to the conclusion that such resistance on thepart of a poor man, raggedly dressed, was strong evidence of guilt. For,if not guilty of the murder, why should the man resist? Picking himselfup briskly, Policeman X sprang his rattle.

  The precise effect produced upon the mind of Antony Cowlrick by thesound of this rattle must be mere matter of conjecture, and we willleave its consideration to a future article; its outward and visibleeffect was the taking to his heels by Antony Cowlrick.

  The mental condition of Antony Cowlrick at this exact moment presents aninteresting study. Its variety, its colour, its turmoil of possibilitiesand consequences, its sequence of private and personal circumstance, arealmost sufficiently tempting to induce us instantly to wander into apsychological treatise utterly unfit for the columns of our littlenewspaper, and conducive, therefore, to its immediate decline inpopularity. We resist the temptation. We adhere to our programme; sternReality--pictures of life as they naturally present themselves in alltheir beauty or deformity; the truth, THE TRUTH, in its naked sweetnessor hideousness! The highest efforts of imagination cannot equal thepictures which are for ever being painted upon the canvas of Reality.

  Antony Cowlrick took to his heels: what more conclusive evidence thanthat he was the murderer did murderer ever give? He took to his heelsand ran, self-convicted. The evidence was complete. After him, springinghis rattle and dreaming of promotion, raced Policeman X. The magic soundcaused windows to be thrown open and heads to be thrust out; causedordinary wayfarers to stop and consider; caused idlers to stray in itsdirection; caused old hands with the brand of thief upon them to smilecontemptuously, and young ones to slink timidly into the shadow of thewall. To the "force" it was a call to arms. It summoned from the northan angry, fierce, and blustering policeman; from the south a slow,envious, dallying policeman; from the east a nipping, sharp, and suddenpoliceman; from the west a brisk, alert, and eager policeman;--and allof them converging upon the hapless form of Antony Cowlrick, he wascaught in the toils of Fate's compass, and lay, gasping and exhausted,beneath the blaze of five bull's-eye lamps, which glowed upon him withstern and baneful intention.

  Helpless and bewildered lay Antony Cowlrick upon the flagstones of GreatPorter Square. Over him, in a circle, stood the five policemen. Theseguardians of the law were tasting one of the sweetest pleasures inexistence--for to our imperfect nature, the hunting down of any livingcreature, whether human or animal, is a rare enjoyment.

  Policeman X wipes the mud from his brow.

  "Did he strike you?" asks a comrade.

  "You see," answers Policeman X, pointing to his face.

  Policemen are ready of belief in such matters. They see without seeing,and sometimes swear to the truth of a circumstance which is introducedto them second-hand.

  "Now then," says Policeman X, of the prostrate man, caught in thetoils, "will you come quietly?"

  Expectancy reigned in the hearts of the constables. We do not wish to beharsh in our judgment of them, when we say that, as a rule, they prefera slight resistance on the part of a prisoner. To some extent itenhances the value of their services, and the extra exertion necessaryin the conveying of their man to the lock-up, shows that they are doingsomething for their insufficient stipend. For our own part, we see muchenjoyment in a policeman's life, and were we not tied to the editorialdesk, we would joyfully exchange the quill for the rattle.

  "Will you come quietly?" demands Policeman X.

  Antony Cowlrick is too exhausted to reply, and accepting his silence asa challenge, his pursuers gave him no grace. They haul him to his feet,and proceed to deal with him in their usual humane fashion. This causesfaint murmurs of remonstrance to proceed from him, and causes him, also,to hold his arms before his face in protection, and to ask faintly,

  "What have I done?"

  "Ah!" say the four policemen, with a look of enquiry at him whose rattlesummoned them to the battlefield.

  The proud official--it is in truth a proud moment for him--utters buttwo words; but they are sufficient to animate the policemen's breastswith excess of ardour.

  "The murderer!" he whispers.

  The murderer! Had he spoken for an hour he could not have produced amore thrilling effect; and be sure that he was as conscious of the valueof this dramatic point as the most skilful actor on our stage. A lightwas instantly thrown upon the drama of the crime, and the unfortunateman, in their eyes, was damned beyond hope of redemption. The murderer!Blood swam before their eyes. Delightful moments!

  But the ears of the prisoner had caught the words.

  "What!" he screamed, making a violent attempt to wrench himself fromthe grasp of his captors. Poor fool! He was one to five, and was soonreduced to physical submission. The rough usage he received in thecourse of the struggle appeared to tame him inwardly as well asoutwardly; when he spoke again his voice was calmer.

  "Do you accuse me of the murder of that man?" he asked, turning his facetowards 119, Great Porter Square.

  He was most surely condemning himself.

  "Yon know best whether you did it," observed Policeman X.

  "Yes," he replied, "I know best."

  "What were you doing there?" was the nex
t enquiry.

  The man looked at them slowly, in detail, as though to fix their facesin his memory, and then, opening his lips, smiled, but did not speak.Nothing more exasperating could well have been imagined than the strangesmile of this wretched man--a smile which seemed to say, "You will learnnothing from me."

  It was late in the night, but a crowd had already assembled, and thewhisper went round that the murderer of the man who was found so cruellymurdered in No. 119, Great Porter Square, had been caught. Short shriftwould have been his, even in this law-loving city, if the excitedknot of persons could have had their way; but it was the duty of theconstables to protect their prisoner.

  "Will you come quietly?" they asked of him.

  "Why not?" he asked in return. "I shall be the gainer."

  So, carefully guarded and held as in a vice, the man walked to thepolice-court with his captors, followed by the crowd. It was almosta gala night, and the persons who hung at the heels of the supposedmurderer and his captors were vehement in speech and florid in actionas they explained to every new-comer the cause of the gathering.

  "What is the charge?" asked the inspector.

  Who should answer but the prisoner himself? Strange fancy of his to takethe words from the tongues of his accusers--to steal, as it were, thevery bread from their mouths!

  "Murder," he cried, with a bitter laugh.

  An almost imperceptible quiver agitated the eyelids of the inspector,but it was in a quiet voice he repeated "Murder!" and held his pensuspended over the book in which the charges were set down.

  "No. 119, Great Porter Square," added Policeman X, not willing to berobbed of every one of his perquisites.

  The inspector's agitation was now more clearly exhibited. The murder wasa notable one--all London was ringing with it. His eyes wandered slowlyover the prisoner's form.

  The man's clothes were ragged, mudded, and shabby, but were without apatch; his boots showed signs of travel; his face had been unshaven fordays.

  "Search him," said the inspector.

  The man resisted, his face flushing up at the order; he was not awarethat every fresh resistance to every fresh indignity was additionalconfirmation of guilt. The web was closing round him, and he wasassisting to spin it. They found on him some stale bread and cheese.

  "Take care of it," he said tauntingly.

  They continued their search, and found nothing else--not a scrap ofpaper, not a card, not a penny piece, not a knife even. It was mostperplexing and annoying.

  "Your name?" asked the inspector.

  The man laughed again bitterly.

  "Your name," repeated the inspector.

  "My name!" echoed the man, and then appeared to consider what answer itwas best to give. "What do you say to Antony Cowlrick?"

  "Is that the name you give?" inquired the inspector.

  "Take it," said the man defiantly, "in place of a better!"

  "Where do you live?"

  "Under the sky."

  No answers of a satisfactory nature could be obtained from him, and hewas taken to his cell, and orders were given that he should be watchedthrough the night.

  As Antony Cowlrick, the man was brought before the magistrate the nextmorning, charged with the commission of the dreadful crime, and wasformally remanded for the production of evidence.

  We beg our readers not to be led away by the idea that we are writinga romance; we are stating plain facts. Without a tittle of evidence toimplicate or connect him with the crime, the man Antony Cowlrick hasbeen brought up no fewer than seven times, and has been a prey to thevulgar curiosity of eager crowds thronging to catch a glimpse of amonster whose hands were dyed with the blood of a fellow-creature.He has been treated as though he had already been found guilty--and,indeed, in the minds of thousands of persons he _was_ found guilty; allthat was needed was to fix the day, and prepare the scaffold. Rumours,false statements, columns of fiction, all tending to establish his guiltand to eliminate from the breasts of his fellow-men every spark of pityor mercy, have been freely and shamefully circulated. Our columns alonehave not been degraded by this cruelty and this injustice; from thefirst we refused to believe in Antony Cowlrick's guilt, for the simplereason that nothing could be adduced against him; and the course we havepursued has been justified by the result. Antony Cowlrick is innocent.But for weeks he has been confined in prison, and treated withcontumely. Yesterday he was brought before Mr. Reardon, at the MartinStreet Police Court, and, on the police stating that they had no furtherevidence to offer, Antony Cowlrick was discharged.

  We do not say that he owes his release entirely to the generous advocacyof Mr. Goldberry, but he is certainly indebted to that gentleman for anearlier release from prison than the police would have been willing toaccord him. For if prisons were not filled there would be no need ofconstables, and the common law of self-preservation induces all meninstinctively to adopt that course which will preserve and lengthentheir existence. Therefore, we say again, the prisons must be filled,and in the performance of this duty the police assert the necessity oftheir being.

  Now, how stands the case at the present moment? What is the position ofthe Great Porter Square mystery? An innocent man has been arrested andcharged with the crime; after a detention of eight weeks he has beendischarged; and, during the whole of this interval, the police have beenfollowing a wrong scent. That they knew absolutely nothing of the manthey falsely accused--that it is unknown where he has been lodging, andhow long he has been in London--that not a friend has come forward tospeak a word in his behalf, and that he himself has chosen to preserve astrange and inexplicable silence about himself--these circumstances addto the mystery.

  A startling coincidence presents itself; the man who was murdered isunknown; the only man whom the police have arrested for the murder isunknown. But it would be odd if, in such a city as London, with itsmillions of human beings and its myriad of circumstances, strange andstartling coincidences did not frequently occur.

  There shall be no misconception of our meaning; there have been toomany instances lately of wrong done to individuals by false or recklessswearing on the part of the police. The case of Frost and Smith,condemned by Mr. Justice Hawkins respectively to fifteen and twelveyears' penal servitude, on the testimony of the police, for a crime theydid not commit, is fresh in the memory of our readers. The men are nowreleased, after undergoing two years' imprisonment--released, not by theefforts of the police who swore away their liberty, nor by the jury whocondemned them, nor by the judge who sentenced them, but by means ofan anonymous letter and the arrest of the real criminals for anothercrime--released really by an accident which, while it restores them toliberty, cannot remove from them the taint of the gaol. But, it may beurged, they have Her Gracious Majesty's Pardon. Sweet consolation!A pardon for a crime they did not commit! Never was a word with agracious meaning to it more bitterly parodied than this; the use of theword "pardon" by Home Secretaries, as applied to the men Frost andSmith, is not only an unpardonable mockery, but a shameful insult.Truly, red-tapeism, like charity, is made to cover a multitude of sins,but it cannot cover this.

  We trust that the police have restored to Antony Cowlrick theproperty--the only property--they found upon his person at the timeof his arrest; the pieces of stale bread and cheese. According toappearance it is all he has to fight the world with. It is worthy ofnote that Cowlrick made no application to the magistrate for relief.

  We have opened a subscription for the unfortunate man, and have alreadytwo sovereigns in our possession, which we shall be happy to hand tothis last "victim of justice," if he will call at our office.

  To-morrow we shall have something more, something perhaps of thegreatest interest, to say with respect to Antony Cowlrick.